The Strangers
by Amulet Joker
Summary: "In which Esca MacCunoval finds that watching your childhood friend take down a man twice his size in the middle of a shady bar in an even shadier corner of New York forces you to realize you hardly know him at all." T for mentioned violence/blood. (PERMANENTLY DISCONTINUED ON THIS SITE)
1. First Snow

**A/N**: AU idea completely belongs to bachaboska on youtube and livejournal for their video called "The Strangers", which I suggest you go watch: www. youtube watch?v=v1RQBXQoXTc (remove spaces).

The time period is ambiguous, but it's somewhere in the sixties to eighties? Something like that.

A chapter will be posted every other day.

Ciao!

~Webs

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><p>Bouncing his knees to the beat coming from the studio speakers, Marcus leans forward on his elbows and watches as a severe women with an entirely too-tight bun high on her head snap instructions to the line of girls and boys at the bar across the back wall, and Marcus certainly doesn't envy them. Nor does he envy the way they raise their legs so far above their heads.<p>

Allowing a small snort to leave his chest, he draws the attention of both the instructor and a sandy-haired boy at the middle of the line, the latter of which sticks his tongue out at him behind the woman's back. Marcus waves apologetically to the instructor, but makes a face at the boy as soon as she's turned back around. Said boy ignores him to return to the drills, though Marcus catches the barest hint of a smile as he does so.

Marcus pulls his ski-cap down harder to cover his ears as he glances at the clock, waiting for the town bell to strike five so he can finally leave and get something to eat. The instructor is just getting into another set of commands when the bell goes off, Marcus jumping to his feet as the dancers disperse towards their bags. Marcus grabs his backpack and the small gray duffle under his chair, trotting across the floor towards the sandy-haired boy, getting a stern glare from the instructor for having his shoes on anything by the outer edge.

Esca grabs the duffle from Marcus and shrugs into his jacket after changing his shoes, before grabbing his arm and dragging the brunette from the studio with a harried smile to his teacher. "Esca, hold on." Marcus tries to free his arm, but Esca doesn't release him until they're well down the street, and even then, he spins Marcus around to face him instead.

"What was so funny?" he demands, tone curling with the accent he'd brought over from his hometown. Marcus grins and adjusts his backpack better on his shoulder, quite use to his friend's unbidden anger.

"Aw, c'mon, you kiddin'? You're all toothpicks in tights; what's not to be funny about that?" Esca's glare doesn't waver, until he turns and starts swearing in Gaelic, and though Marcus does understand most of it, he gets Esca's damnation of his soul, and nearly bursts out laughing again as he hurries to catch up. "I don't know how any of you keep a straight face in there."

"We take it seriously."

"I don't see how." Marcus continues grinning, tipping his head around to look at Esca's face, which is still in a stern frown, but his eyes are alight like he's about to start laughing himself; Marcus's grin widens. "Seriously. There's five guys in there parading around in tights and unitards, and you're telling me you 'take it seriously'?"

"I didn't ask for your input, Marcus," he says, voice even, but the punch to Marcus' shoulder tells otherwise of his expression. Still grinning, Marcus rubs his arm, before speeding up a step to tackle Esca into a headlock, pulling an indignant squawk from the other. "Hey!"

"You know what, Esca? I think you'd still be taking' art lessons if it weren't for me," Marcus announces loudly, Esca tugging at his arm in an attempt to remove it. "So, yes, you did ask for my input."

"I did not! Now get off!"

"Aye, you did!" A rather poor imitation of his accent draws a laugh from Esca as Marcus continues to drag him along the street.

"Remind me never to let you watch my class again."

"Who's going to walk home with me after school everyday then?" Esca goes quiet, and sensing the mood change, Marcus slowly releases him to walk side-by-side again. "What is it?" Esca shoves his hands in his pockets and is silent for a few moments.

"I have this audition in a couple of weeks. If I get in, I'll be moving back to England." Marcus slows his stride until he's at a full stop, Esca stopping as well a few paces in front of him.

"When?"

"The audition? Two weeks from tomorrow." He looks down at his feet as he shuffles them, hand tight around the strap of his bag. "They have a school in London, and my da thinks I can get in."

"So if you do get in, when will you move?" Marcus doesn't know what else to ask, watching as Esca won't meet his gaze.

"Within the month." They're both silent for a long few moments, then Marcus grins, closing the gap between them and tackling him into another hug.

"See, I told you you'd be goin' places!" Forced back a couple of steps, Esca quickly finds his footing and looks up at Marcus.

"You're not mad?"

"Why would I be mad? You've more than a good chance of getting into that school, and you've always hated the states, haven't you?" Esca shuffles his feet again, avoiding eye contact as the bridge of his nose goes pink.

"I dunno, they're not all bad."

"But you've missed England, and besides, we can be penpals now." Esca grins at that, headbutting him before twisting away out of Marcus' grip.

"You mean if I can even read your handwriting!"

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><p>"Marcus!" Marcus groans and pulls his pillow harder over his head, burrowing further into his blankets. Though it's already late in the day, he hasn't gotten up yet, quite content to sleep away his sunday."Marcus, Esca is on the phone!" He only slightly-grudgingly raises his head at that, looking at the clock before groggily swinging himself up to his feet.<p>

"Coming!" the boy croaks, before splitting into a wide yawn as he pulls on a sweatshirt and pads down the stairs to the ground floor. Marcus' mother is hanging out of the kitchen doorway with the phone pressed to her chest, lips in a thin line as she takes in her son's state of disarray. He ignores her look and takes the phone from her, the cord stretching to allow him to stay in the dining room.

"Marcus? Were you seriously still in bed?"

"Don't judge me," he mumbles, yawning again and slumping against the wall, hearing his mother move around the kitchen, making lunch.

"Too late for that." Esca goes quiet for a moment, Marcus opening his eyes and straightening up a bit.

"Esca?"

"Can you meet me at the park in ten minutes?"

"Well, yeah, I guess—"

"Good. Make sure you bring a jacket; it's cold." He hangs up before Marcus can respond, pulling the phone away from his ear in surprise. He hangs it up with a frown, and tells his mother where he's going, before dashing up the stairs to get dressed, only grabbing his jacket as an afterthought as he darts out the door.

When he gets to the park, Esca is one of the swings with his back to Marcus, kicking at the bark chips under his feet so he slowly sways with the breeze that is indeed cold, Marcus pausing at the fence. After a long minute of steeling himself, Marcus walks over to join him, tapping Esca on the shoulder as he plops into the swing next to his.

Esca jumps and looks up, then snorts and shakes his head, eyeing Marcus' thin sweatshirt. "I said bring a jacket; it's supposed to start snowing soon." Marcus shrugs.

"I'm fine with this. Did you have something you need to tell me?" Esca's smile fades a bit at the corners, and he faces back forward again, kicking gently at the ground to start swinging a bit again.

"It's more of a request. Practice writing so I can actually understand it, okay?" Marcus' face splits into a grin.

"You got in! Esca, that's great!"

"I'm moving next week." Marcus' next words lodge uncomfortably in his throat, and he tries his best to keep his smile in place. He comes up with several things he can say to cheer him up, but what comes out instead is,

"So soon?"

"My da wants to get settled in as soon as possible, so we're going a bit early."

"What about your brothers?"

"They're coming too." Marcus looks up at the gray skies, and it really does look like it's going to snow soon. Marcus would sleep over at Esca's for a couple of days whenever the first snow would hit, that always being the worst; you could count on school closing, and the roads too caked to drive, and Esca had always had him over. It'd been that way for the past three years.

"You'll miss the first snow."

"I know." They're silent for a few minutes, Marcus starting to gently kick his feet as well, hands going numb where they're locked around the chains of the swing.

"I'll miss you." Esca stops swinging, getting to his feet after a moment and putting his hands on the chains of Marcus' swing, just above the brunette's own. Surprised, Marcus stops swinging and opens his mouth to question him, but Esca darts a rapid kiss to Marcus' cheek before he can.

"I'll miss you too. Promise you'll write?" After several beats of surprised silence, Marcus' trademark smile slides back into place.

"Everyday you're gone."

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><p><strong>AN**: I had a lot of ideas running around for this, so I hope it isn't awful. I wrote this before seeing any of the movies whose clips were included in the video, so hopefully this doesn't seem too much like them, though the most obvious bits are going to be the correlations between Billy Elliot and this chapter, but that's only going to be for a very small part, since it's only the first chapter that they're kids.

The Seal prince is named Rònan in this, since I don't know his real name, and Rònan, as I understand it, means seal. Marcus is a solider as we'll see in the next chapter, and I've left the people he's fighting ambiguous at best, so take from that what you will.

Ciao for now!

~Webs


	2. Back Up on Your Feet

_The truck lurches over stones and sand, preventing any shut-eye the soldiers were hoping to get on the way to their destination, shoulders bumping and legs bouncing into one another too often for them to complain. Marcus has his head leant against the fabric behind him, eyes closed despite his inability to truly sleep, hands wrapped loosely around the M16, butt resting on the ground in front of him. Lutorious watches him from across the aisle, as if surprised by his laid-back attitude, but having been with Marcus since the beginning of his command, he knows full well he's the most focused soldier in the truck. So Lori doesn't say anything, just shakes his head and goes back to observing the rest of the unit, finding many of them just as nervous as he feels._

_Marcus shifts on his seat and opens his eyes, sitting up straight and nodding to Lori to let him know they're close, just as a voice fuzzes through the radio to tell them to make themselves ready. Lori shakes his head, never having understood Marcus' skill with distances._

Esca rolls his ankles against the floor, one hand on the bar skirting the edge of the room as he pushes up to his toes repeatedly, sweat running down his back and causing his hair to stick to his forehead. The radio plays softly in the corner, but Esca warms up to memorized beats, feeling the slide of tights as he raises his foot above his head. He stretches it as far as it will go, and then some, closing his eyes and leaning his full weight onto the bar.

Vaguely aware of the clock ticking away to rehearsal time, Esca bends over to the floor, taught muscles bending with him, but there's no strain to them, hooking his hands behind his ankles. Closing his eyes again, he listens to the tape playing, an old band he hadn't listened to in years, not since he was a kid.

He even smiles a bit at remember every word despite the time, and raises himself back up to stretch backwards instead. The sounds of New York City rumble the studio floor, but being well use to it, Esca continues practicing as if nothing were out of place. And really, what would be?

_Marcus' boots hit the sand with a crunch that sends a shiver up his back, but he ignores it to crouch low to the ground, signaling to his disembarking men silently with his hand. Lori follows closely behind him, stern expressions on all of their faces as they take to the ruined city, humid air settling onto their skin in sheens of sweat. Aside from the already near-silent sounds of their boots, the city is quiet. Uniform. Undisturbed._

_But something doesn't feel right, a lump of concern twisting in the pit of Marcus' stomach that doesn't let him relax, doesn't let him even consider loosening the tension in his shoulders that keeps him coiled and ready to dive behind any piece of rubble at a moment's notice. Lori seems to share the same sentiment, but he doesn't seem to hear the same suspicious tells of activity that Marcus is only able to focus on._

_Marcus is jolting into an upright position and pulling the trigger of his rifle before any of his men have even realized they are not alone, before the enemy soldier can even raise their own gun, so there is only one sound ringing through the ruins, before all hell breaks loose._

The press of the mirror behind him offers a blissful coolness to Esca's heated skin, a towel around his neck as he watches his dance partners warmup on the floor. Esca takes a long swallow of water, tipping back his head so the line of his throat is exposed, relishing in the airconditioning he had not noticed while practicing. He feels his instructor's accusitory gaze on him, as if he should know full well that he should not be pushing himself like he has been doing.

He ignores this, of course, closing his eyes again and leaning his head against the mirror as he closes the cap of his waterbottle. He can feel the weak afternoon sunlight flitting in through the row of frosted windows high on the walls, quite content to remain where he is until he's called to the rehearsal. Despite outward appearences, he does care a great deal about this show, _Swan Lake_, nostalgia tied into every bit of it from when he was young. He remembers every part of the routine, every step, every dancer, every face that showed to the recital that night.

He remembers Marcus making fun of him for the too-large set of black wings he'd been forced into wearing.

_Compared to the utter stillness of their commander before, Marcus falls easily into the battle erupting around them, shouting instructions and signals as if it were just another day at training. Lori watches Marcus for any sign of faltering or weakness, but finding none, he has no choice but to follow his lead, and even that becomes easy with how little distrust there is between the men and their commander._

_Marcus can barely feel his fingers or toes as he crouches behind a broken wall, gripping his rifle impossibly tight as he counts to five in his head, before darting up over the wall to shoot another enemy soldier down over the side of the opposite wall. Lori follows suit soon after, and Marcus gets the feeling they'll make it out of this alive. Spurred by this thought, this sureity, he signals for an offensive, waiting until his men have assembaled before darting to charge the building the enemy all seem to be hiding in._

_The ground rumbles under their feet, and for a moment, Marcus is unsure whether or not it is from them, but his question is answered soon enough when all shooters in his line of sight disappear, to be replaced with the roaring sound of a tank taking down nearby houses, before showering his men with dust and debris, a spare few dropping to the ground or diving for cover. Marcus feels a surge of pride for the ones that stay standing, but he shouts for a retreat, knowing they could get nowhere without backup, not like this._

_Lori reshouts the command, ensuring everyone hears as they all turn heel and start sprinting for the truck they'd arrived in, Lori already calling in for backup, for a plane, for anything. Marcus runs along beside him, glad the tank had not taken the liberty to shoot at them, but he knows it is only a matter of time, that he has to do _something_ or his entire unit will be killed. Eyes catching on a fallen launcher with tank rounds, dropped by of his own soldiers perhaps, Marcus skids to a stop to turn around._

_He hears the pleading shouts from his men, begging him to join them, to leave the lost cause alone, but he does not listen, picking up the launcher and arming it before running straight at the tank. He only stops when he's close enough, shooting right for the cockpit. He feels the recoil, feels the heat, feels rather than sees everything that happens in quick succession._

_He only gets the satisfaction of seeing the tank topple over before he's flat on his back, knocked to the ground and feet sweapt out from underneath him._

Esca looks to the floor in front of him and pushes himself up to his feet.


	3. Just Imagination

**A/N**: Beppo is the name of the slave trader in the book that is shown briefly in the movie before Esca's gladiator fight at the beginning.

~Webs

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><p>Marcus does his best to focus on the thrumming pain in his leg rather than the whispering of some officials outside the flap of his tent. Yes, the feeling of someone holding a white-hot rod of metal in the center of his thigh is easier to handle than the idle gossip, claiming it is unlikely he will ever walk again.<p>

Marcus of course knows that isn't true, that he has every capability of being able to walk again, and he will, if with a slight limp, but he _would_ walk. He would prove all of them wrong, prove to his superiors that the honorable discharge resting on the table next to his cot would be a mistake. That his reinstatement would be as well-earned as the medal tossed careless on top of his box of photos.

But being bedridden in the corner of the military hospital with nothing to do aside from thinking what he's to do once he returns, he can hardly go to the general, or even Lori, in hopes of convincing them to let him stay. No, he's left to think about the contents of the box, and try to decide if he should try and contact Esca. They hadn't spoken since they'd stopped exchanging letters, but Marcus had kept... tabs on his friend's progress, if for nothing else than to see how far he would get.

He can't deny his pride in Esca for making it through competition after competition, slowly making it known he is a genius. Marcus would tell anyone who cared _"I grew up with him."_

_Esca flips to the next page in his cue-book, the binder sitting on a music stand so he can read it while using the bar backstage to stretch out before the performance, leg held high in the air while his eyes scan the notes. He'd done this show too many times to count, but he always rereads everything to ensure he doesn't mess up._

_He's had the binder for years, a collage of pictures on the inside of the front cover forcing him to keep stellar care of it. He glances at the photos, quickly picking out the ones from his time in the little village of Stillwater before he'd moved back to London, smiling inwardly at his brothers' eighth birthday, his parents' anniversary, at Marcus' grin at having pinned him down at the park._

_Esca switches legs and bends to stretch, letting his eyes wander from the pictures and back to the pages of cues, idly wondering if Marcus had ever become the boxer he'd claimed he wanted to be._

Marcus shoulders open the white wooden door with a grunt, hobbling on his crutches to twist his way through the door, trying not to knock into anything either with his leg or the military-green bag over his shoulder. His apartment seems completely unchanged as he somehow manages to enter it and close the door behind him, though there's a layer of dust covering everything despite Marcus' mother promising a routine cleaning of said dust.

He pushes the thought of his mother from his mind, feeling guilty for not alerting her to his return; he could do without the shame of being discharged in the wake of his father's disappearance. He could get around telling her about it until he's fully healed, couldn't he?

He lets out a long, labored sigh, and just stands in the foyer with no idea what he's going to do now. He's got his veteran's pension for the time being, since he wouldn't be able to get a job until he was healed, so there's just... nothing. He had had little friends to start with, so no one to call besides Lori, but with him taking over his command...

No.

Marcus shakes his head and pushes himself to make it to the living room, skirting the walls to give them a wide berth on his way to the couch, located in front of the TV that seems to be the only reprieve from boredom he'll get for a long while. Settling down, he locates the remote that blissfully still has working batteries in it, and switches on the TV, flipping idly throught he channels. He passes three cooking shows, two news stations, and four reality shows before he catches a snatch of a familiar name.

He quickly backtracks to the station in question, to some _Swan Lake_ performance that he's really not all that interested in, until he recognizes one of the faces on stage, until he's grinning before he knows what he's doing, watching as Esca takes the stage by storm.

He's still smiling to himself when a sharp knock on his door has him scrambling to switch off the TV as if he actually had something to hide. After realizing that he's being stupid, he takes a deep breath and swings himself back up to his feet and grabs his crutches to hobble back to the door, not bothering with the peephole before opening it.

A big... sweaty mess of a man stands on the other side, greasy hair slicked back into a ponytail that Marcus would know from a mile away. His eyebrow still shoots into the air as he takes in the full-sight of his old training-buddy, Beppo, who'd dropped out to get hitched before Marcus was deployed.

"Ah, Marcus, m'boy!" Marcus doesn't know if he's relieved that Beppo's lack of volume control hasn't changed a bit, but doesn't have time to dwell on it before Beppo is slapping his shoulder jovily, Marcus almost losing his footing. "I thought I saw you'd moved back in!"

Marcus pastes on a smile upon realizing he's not exactly happy to see someone who'd been there when Marcus was at his best, now left to his worst. "Good to see you too, Beppo. What on earth are you doing here?"

"A friend can't stop by to say hello?"

"I didn't even know you lived here." Beppo puffs out his chest like a proud mother hen, grinning toothily.

"My wife likes the city, she says it'll be good for the babe." Marcus raises an eyebrow at that, but keeps the smile in place act interested.

"I didn't think you were a family man, Beppo." He gives a shrug that ripples the tattoos on his shoulders.

"I can't say I blame ya. I thought for a minute perhaps you'd dropped out for similar reasons, but..." His eyes dart down to Marcus' leg, and the ex-soldier's jaw tightens, though he does his best to stay smiling. Beppo, sensing the change in tone, still plows along as if he hadn't. "Are you taking physical therapy for that?" Marcus snorts and shakes his head, shifting his weight so his crutches aren't digging into his armpits. "Guern can help you out, if you want."

Marcus raises his head a bit, trying to recall if he knew anyone by the name of _Guern_. "He's one of your father's old buddies," Beppo clarifies. "He owns a wrestling gym not far from here, if you're interested."

He had not thought about wrestling since he was... eight or nine, at the most, hadn't even remembered that use to be one of his dreams. "I guess I'll be needing the exercise, if I can't... y'know." He gestures vaguely to his near-lame leg. Beppo just grins and claps him on the shoulder again.

_Esca can hardly stop his grinning, can hardly contain his bouncy feeling as he exits the stage after curtain call. He's surrounded by the people he'd danced with, exchanging hugs and kisses on the cheek, more than several of them crying. Last show of the run, last time he'd have to attach craft feathers to his sandy locks. He feels like crying as well from relief._

_Esca finally breaks away from the crowd to locate his bag where he'd left it under the bar, packing up his cue-book to the sound of a small TV droning somewhere in the back. He doesn't much care for TV, he realizes, but he half-pays attention to the news they're currently broadcasting as he pulls on a pair of pants over his tights._

"Among the discharged, thirty eight were injured in the line of duty. Those discharged are: Thommy Abernanthy, Patricia Arnolds..."_ Once they start putting up a picture to every name on the screen, Esca starts to tune out the names, not giving a lick of care for those stupid enough to join the army, but as they reach the end of the A's, Esca's head jerks back up. _"Aquila."

_Esca darts over to the TV with his breath held tightly in his chest, but they've moved onto the B's, and after a long minute of just staring at the screen, he lets out the breath and shakes it off, wandering back over to his bed to pick it up. He hadn't heard from Marcus in years, but having thought of him just a few hours ago, it would make sense Esca would think he heard his name. He chalks it up to imagination and nothing else._


	4. Not Anymore

_Marcus flits around the edges of the ring, before darting forward to lock arms with his opponent, listening for any shouted instructions from Guern. When he hears none, he smiles to himself, not being able to fathom the rushing feeling of moving freely again. He dives into the fight as if he were born to it, easily putting his opponent on the flat of his back without breaking a sweat._

_Guern, who'd been instructing some other wrestler, sends him a nod of approval as Marcus offers down a hand to the poor sap who hadn't stood a chance. "Sorry about that," Marcus says with a smile. The other man shrugs, and though looks miffed, he looks pleased enough._

_"No, it's quite alright! It's been a while since I've had to move that much; it was more than refreshing." He shakes Marcus' hand before slipping off of the mat, leaving Marcus to grin after him, swinging himself down to the floor and making his way over to the water jug. Beppo joins him a moment later, clapping him on the shoulder with enough strength to send him reeling for a moment._

_"Marcus! I see you're holding up rather well, aren't you, m'boy?" Marcus straightens himself with a proud tilt to his shoulders, smiling to himself._

_"You don't seem bad yourself. How's the kid?" Beppo makes a grandiose sigh and wraps an arm around Marcus, sagging dramatically._

_"Oh, he's up all hours of the night crying his head off like we were starvin' him." Marcus snorts into his cup of water, but quickly feels uneasy at the look Beppo is giving him down his nose. "Are y'all healed now, m'boy?"_

_"More or less. It still gets stiff when it rains, but that's just something I'll have to deal with, I suppose..." he says carefully, draining his cup and bending over to refill it in hopes of ducking from under Beppo's arm, but the man doesn't release him._

_"Most of that is thanks to Guern, is it not?" Marcus raises his eyebrows silently, not willing to speak until he knows of Beppo's intentions; if what he's heard from the others that hang around the gym, he's turned slimy at best. "It would be nice to repay him, wouldn'it?"_

_"I suppose..." On a veteran's pension, there's no way he could afford to pay back for everything Guern had done to help him with his healing, and with building his strength back up to, if not more than what it had been before his deployment. Guern hardly asked for anything, more than happy to help the son of a friend, even if his dad had been a bastard, but it is true Marcus has been wanting to make it up to him; how Beppo had seen that really isn't a surprise, but it leaves him unsettled, and rather guilty._

_Beppo grins greasily and claps him on the shoulder again, but pulls him closer rather than pushes him away. "My buddy owns a bar over on the other side of town, and we're looking for... some entertainment. Something you'd be very... capable of offering."_

_"Look, Beppo, I don't know what you're asking for, but I really don't think—"_

_"You're strong, Marcus!" He spins Marcus around and and holds up the ex-soldier's arm, forcing it into a flex. "You'd do good against any man they bring out! All I'm asking is for one round, take down one guy, and I'll split the earnings sixty/forty." Marcus opens his mouth to turn him down, but Beppo puts a finger to his mouth, which Marcus quickly tries to duck away from. "Sixty percent goes to you, my friend. No questions asked."_

_Beppo waits for a response that Marcus doesn't know how to give, catching sight of Guern on the other side of the room, and he... does feel as if he should repay him, Marcus not knowing where he'd be if it weren't for him._

_Marcus takes in a deep, long breath, and looks back to Beppo. "What time should I be there?"_

"You spent all that time in London just to sit your ass back in the states," Rònan teases, throwing an arm around Esca's shoulder as the other grins and lets his small gaggle of friends drag him to the far end of town, too hyped up by the acceptance letter left on his dresser to care where they were even taking him. He's already lightly buzzed from the drinks he'd shared with Rònan back at their apartment before Golba and several colleagues had picked him up for a night of drinking.

Though, the building Rònan is leading him to causes some pause, the brick walls grimy with the neons flickering and sending out small sparks every now and then. It looked as seedy as a stripclub, though the lack of advertisment for such convinces his mind it's entirely alright to spend a night in. Rònan seems to be thinking the same thing, though judging by the calls of recognition he gets as he walks in, along with greetings to Golba, they've been here often. Esca sees little for there to be admired about even on the inside, the chairs tattered, floors grubby, and even the patrons seem ruddy and unkempt.

Rònan and Golba take no notice as they pull Esca to the bar, cutting their way through the sweaty bodies of the crowd towards the bar where the tender greets half of them by name and slides glasses across the counter. "Just in time, Rònan!" he calls over the din of the room, while Rònan just grins and shoves a glass of something into Esca's as he nods to space bearing cleared in the crowd on the far end of the bar.

"What's—?" Esca begins, but Golba is answering before he can finish.

"They hold ruleless boxing here." At Esca's raised eyebrow, Rònan rolls his eyes and pats his shoulder, Esca feeling as if his masculinity is being questioned yet again; with an awkward jock for a roommate, Esca finds that happening quite often.

"There are some rules, but it's mostly a free-for-all between anybody stupid enough to take it on." Rònan takes a seat at a booth close to the clearing, Golba eagerly joining them while Esca switches out the strange drink in his hand for a normal beer. Rònan knows how much Esca hates violence; he's quite offended that he would take him to such a place knowing there is ridiculously unmonitored boxing going on. Esca is sure it is a conspiracy.

As he's making his way to join his friends, he's vaguely aware of someone with a _very_ loud voice announcing the fighters of the night, but he doesn't pay much attention. One of Rònan's friends stops him to congratulate him, a delicate hand on her hip as she makes herself completely visible, an easy, rather tempting smile on her lips.

Esca smiles politely back and tries to slip away, making a mental note to remind Rònan to tell his friends he's really not interested in—

"... newcomer, Marcus Aquila!"

Esca's head shoots up from the conversation, eyes darting to the tanned man that walks out of the crowd, rolling his broad shoulders and neck as if he were completely relaxed. Esca doesn't want to believe it, but there's his crooked nose, and his eyes are just slightly uneven, and the way he carries himself just... speaks Marcus in a way that causes something in his gut to curl uncomfortably. A whisper of, "_Marcus,_" falls from his lips before he can stop it, straightening up to better see the commotion about to start in the midst of the crowd.

Now completely ignoring the woman trying to get his attention back, Esca's hand tightens impossibly around the neck of his beer bottle, the cold condensation stinging his palms that are growing clammy at the sight of Marcus' apparent opponent, a burly man covered in tattoos and arms big enough that Esca could use them as small tables. He watches in abject horror as Marcus doesn't take the first swing.

Esca feels seven years old again, watching from the sidewalk as Marcus tackles one of the village boys to the ground for calling Esca a pansy, or a girl, or any variation thereof. He feels like a kid again with Marcus rejoining him for their walk home as if nothing had happened, all the while wiping blood from his lip. He would grin toothily and shrug it off with, "_You should see the other guy._"

It soon becomes clear that Rònan is watching him, but Esca ignores him, too glued on the fight and the fact Marcus is holding up spectacularly well; perhaps he had become the wrestler he'd always wanted to be?

As quickly as it had started, Marcus is landing one more punch across the other's jaw, before scrambling up to his feet as the crowd erupts into cheers, Golba enthusiastically joining them. Marcus rolls his shoulders again, Esca sure most would miss the wince that pulls Marcus' face as he accepts an old rag from an equally ruddy man to get the blood off of his cheek and lip.

Growing up, Marcus had always gone home before the bruises actually started showing, and wouldn't see Esca until they were past the worst of it, but that isn't an option now, Esca's stomach twisting again at Marcus' already-purpling face.

As if attuned to Esca's unease, Rònan quickly gets to his feet and makes his way back to the dancer, putting a hand on his shoulder and nodding towards the door. Esca follows without much complaint, insides warring between the idea of approaching Marcus, and the realization that Marcus probably wouldn't even recognize him. So he lets Rònan steer him from the bar, leaving Golba in the booth and Esca with the feeling that he'd made a split-second of eye contact with Marcus as he'd turned.

"You knew him, didn't you?" Rònan demands once they're in the safety of the outside alley, where the throes of the night have already set in in the form of cold breezes and foggy breath.

Esca swallows thickly and doesn't answer for a moment, looking back at the bar door and feeling a strong pull to go back inside. "No, not anymore."

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: I'm pretty sure Rònan is entirely, completely and utter out of character, but we didn't see much of him in the movie anyway, so...


	5. Family Recipe

Rònan wakes Esca the next morning to the sound of something clattering to the floor in the kitchen, loudly. He lets out a soft groan of protest and tries to burrow down more into his blankets in an attempt to rid himself of the horrid headache settling in on his temples. With no such luck, he starts to sit up, yawning widely and looking towards the window. Through the thin blinds, sunlight flits through in much too light a shade to be anywhere after nine, and it's then that Esca decides it's a very good idea to go back to sleep.

He's pulling the blankets over his head when Rònan comes through the door with a mug of something foul, and a plate of slightly-burned eggs. "No, get up. If you sleep the day away, you will not be able to fall asleep tonight, and you have new rehearsals starting tomorrow." Esca glares at him from over the edge of the comforter, but slowly starts to get up, accepting the mug of... coffee?

At Esca's raised eyebrow, Rònan just gestures for him to drink it. "It will help with the hangover; old family recipe." Esca knows he's not hungover, not really; he'd had hardly anything to drink, and nowhere near enough for him to get drunk enough for a hangover, but he takes an obliging swallow anyway, willing the headache to go away.

Of course it tastes like mule piss that has been ruminating on aperagus for two weeks, but he downs the cup in exchange for the plate of eggs that are starting to look very tempting. Rònan takes the cup back to the kitchen while he eats, checking the time on his nightstand with an inward sigh. He blames Marcus for this damned headache, for the weary feeling in his bones that he hasn't had in years. He doesn't know how, but he's sure it's Marcus' fault.

He showers quickly after bringing his plate to the kitchen, dressing so he can practice later without changing and grabs his bag from the hallway. Rònan pokes his head out of his room as he's leaving. "Esca," he calls to stop him before Esca is out the door, joining him in the hallway with a slip of paper and a key "You knew that man yesterday, so I took the liberty of finding who he was." He hands over the paper, where there's a hastily scrawled phone number and address in a handwriting that does not belong to Rònan. "An old drinking friend of mine, Beppo, seems to know him."

Esca moves his eyes from the paper to his roommate and opens his mouth to thank him, or something, but no sound comes out upon realizing that... Marcus lives in New York, just a couple of miles away, and he had never known. They'd stopped speaking around their late teens, neither being able to find the time to send the letters, and by the time Esca had realized that, Marcus had stopped responding. Maybe he had moved, but Esca had never been sure, because wouldn't he just tell Esca his new address?

He had given up, more or less, but now, he could find him again, figure out why they hadn't spoken in years, and how they had lived so close together without having realized it.

"Drop by and go out for lunch or something," Rònan is saying as he walks back down the hall. "Just remember he took down the owner in a couple of minutes; stay safe." Esca's confused gaze turns a bit miffed, hand tightening around the key as he turns to close the door behind him, knowing Marcus wouldn't lay a finger on him, not really.

* * *

><p>It takes him ten minutes of standing at the foot of his building's staircase to steel himself enough to decide whether or not to go see Marcus, and ten more to convince himself that, yes, this <em>is<em> his address, and not some fake Rònan gave him; he doesn't even remember how he'd gotten on that train of thought, but he quickly expels it and pushes his way out into the morning, which is quickly warming up with the coming June.

He takes the twenty-minute walk as slowly as he can, which is really not all that if he's being honest, but he knows if he goes any slower, he'll chicken out and just head to the studio as had been his intention earlier that morning. It is unlikely that Marcus will even be awake at this time, never having been an early riser when they were kids, but it still won't hurt to check.

Esca still waits in front of apartment 9 for a good ten minutes more, debating whether to knock, or just let himself in. Beppo had given Rònan the key, which meant that Marcus had given him the key, and that meant... Marcus would be expecting him to use it, right?

Esca starts feeling a fool and shakes himself before quickly unlocking the door and stepping into the foyer of the plain, quaint apartment. The hallway has three doors, one leading to the kitchen and dining room, and one to the bathroom, so Esca can only assume the third is Marcus' bedroom. After closing the door as quietly as possible, he stands against it and listens for any sign of movement, before pushing off of it and wandering towards that third door.

It is standing a bit ajar, as if Marcus had neglected to close it all of the way the night before, allowing a strip of light to fall across the hallway floor. Esca hesitates again once he realizes that, no, Marcus is not asleep, but rather standing in the middle of the room and pulling a tee-shirt over his head to hide the scars that rake over his torso. While Esca had intended to call out to him, announce his presence, his words die in his throat, or rather lodge there and refuse to move, his eyes flitting over every marr of skin still visible to him.

He already feels quite sick under the idea that Marcus has been doing things like the night before for so long that there doesn't seem to be an inch of him that hasn't been injured in some way, but the bottom of his stomach seems to disappear completely at the web of cicatrices that manlge his thigh with two broken circles that has Esca immediately thinking of bullets.

A short gasp is escaping his chest before he can stop it, and Marcus' head shoots up before his old friend is throwing the door open as Esca is taking a step back. Marcus had looked ready to deck whoever was in his hallway in the face, but upon seeing Esca, he freezes, one hand on the doorknob, and half a mind to flee before Esca could start asking questions.

"Marcus, your—" His eyes dart down to Marcus' thigh again, the brunette's cheeks paling a little bit before flushing a light pink, quickly turning around and searching his room for a pair of pants. "What—?"

"Accident," Marcus interrupts quickly, slipping into a pair of jeans and not looking up. "While I was traveling." Esca doesn't know what to say to that, so just closes his mouth and watches Marcus while Marcus watches him, both awkwardly standing with years of unspoken words clogging the air between them.

Finally, though, Esca can't stand the silence, and looks back up to Marcus' face nodding to the purpled skin of Marcus' eye. "Got quite the shiner there, didn't you?" An easy grin slides across Marcus' face as an entirely too-familiar laugh leaves his chest, running a hand through his short hair.

"You should see the other guy." Then Esca smiles too, and it doesn't seem strange at all to be leaning against the doorjamb of Marcus' room, as if they were still kids trying make excuses to their parents why little Timmy down the street can't come to school the next day. Marcus continues to muss his hair despite the lingering bedhead, neither quite sure what to say, but not even sure if there were anything at all that _could_ be said.

"I'm glad to see your handwriting hasn't changed," Esca finally says as he holds up the slip of paper, and Marcus just grins his lopsided grin.

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: Corny ending is corny.

I also lost about eight thousand words of this, so my next update might be late.


	6. Passed Out and Unable to Show

***EDIT: I ACCIDENTALLY UPLOADED THE WRONG UPDATE OF THIS CHAPTER. THIS IS THE CORRECTLY EDITED VERSION. I AM SO SORRY***

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><p>"I don't know why you're always giving me shit for my handwriting when yours looks like a four year-old found the crayons," Marcus says flatly as Esca pushes an old recipt across the counter to him with his number and studio address scrawled on it. Esca purses his lips and flicks the pen at Marcus' shoulder as the other's face breaks into a smile and a guffaw.<p>

"It's habit from all those autographs I have to sign," he retorts icily. Marcus snorts and passes him a beer from the fridge, popping it open and tossing the cap in the glass vase filled with his collection of said caps.

"I'm sure you have girls falling at your feet." He grabs a beer for himself and leans against the counter, grinning to himself in a way that has Esca shuffling in his seat.

Esca takes a long drink from his bottle, avoiding Marcus' eyes as he instead looks around the apartment, nothing about it feeling "Marcus" at all, save for the small, red-cloth covered table in the corner set with pictures of his parents and a small tray of incense. Esca remembers something similar in Marcus' room growing up, though he doesn't know why he didn't think of it until now. "What were you doing there last night?" he asks abruptly, glancing back at his friend in time to catch his expression change from surprise to sheepish guilt.

"It's a long story."

"I've got time." Marcus raises his eyebrow and takes a large swallow, but doesn't seem inclined to indulge Esca in his curiosity. "Marcus, we've been friends since—"

"We haven't talked in years, Esca. We haven't been friends since tenth grade." Esca purses his lips closed, and Marcus looks even guiltier than before, turning to toss his bottle in the blue bin under the sink, before leaning against it and drumming his fingers on the tile. "A lot of things have happened since we last talked. And we have time to talk about all of it, just not right now." He cuts Esca off before he can protest. "Don't you have rehearsal or something?" He looks up to Esca as he's checking the clock on the wall for the time and is forced to admit that, yes, they truly do not have time right now.

"I'm holding you to this, Marcus," he announces as he finishes his drink and rises himself, stuffing his hands into his pockets. His hand brushes several clips of paper tucked into his jacket, curiously pulling them out for a moment's inspection before setting one on the counter between them. Marcus looks ready to lift his eyebrow again, but Esca has quite had it with his habit, and interrupts him before he can manage it, explaining, "Ticket. For a performance this Thursday. Seven. Don't be late?"

"I have never been late a day in my life." Esca snorts and fixes the collar of his jacket to shield himself from the rain surely spitting outside.

"Just be there on time, got it?" Marcus mock-salutes as Esca moves for the door.

* * *

><p>Esca stands in the rain for twenty minutes before he realizes that Marcus never showed. He watches the near-endless stream of guests exiting from the auditorium, shaking his hand and bidding him goodnight before disappearing into their cars, but Marcus is not one of them. He hadn't seen him before, nor in the crowds. But Marcus wouldn't just <em>not<em> show up; he is too kind for that.

The street is dark with few streetlamps still lit, rain sliding off of Esca's hair and onto his shoes as he watches the custodian lock of the auditorium for the weekend. He's positive he would not have missed Marcus, even with the guests congradulating him and thanking him for the performance. And Marcus wouldn't have just left without a hello, or a tease, or an offer for a drink, he wouldn't just—

As if he hadn't already had enough to think about, Esca remembers quite suddenly the state Marcus had been in after the night at the bar. He's... almost sure Marcus wouldn't make himself do that again...

After a quick thanks to the custodian, Esca shakes the rain from his hair and starts walking quickly down the street, growing more nervous as the walk wears on. He allows his feet to take him back to Marcus' apartment, far more trusting of his instinct than his memory, and shoves his hands further into his pockets that clench into fists around leftover lint from its last wash. The rain doesn't show any sign of stopping, but Esca can't seem to find it in himself to care, slipping inside the building and forcing himself to take the stairs one at a time.

He lets himself quietly into the apartment in case Marcus is just sleeping, locking the door once inside before toeing out of his shoes. He stands in the hallway for a moment, listening for any sound that shows Marcus is awake, but finding none, he pads down to Marcus' room and pushes the door open. The room looks like Marcus hadn't slept in it since Esca had been there last, though there are new sheets on the bed that weren't there before. He's not sure what that entails, backing up and heading into the sitting room instead.

Marcus is dead to the world on the couch, looking to be completely passed out on his stomach with his muddy shoes still on, though they hang off the side so as not to get the furniture dirty. He's wearing sweats and a white tank top that looks like he'd left it on the street for several cars run over before putting on, filthy and mangled and... home to several red stains that cause Esca's stomach to churn uncomfortably.

There are more stains on his sweats as well, so Esca takes comfort in the fact there doesn't seem to be any rips in the fabric, but only until he realizes that means they must have come from his face. Or torso.

It is that thought that finally jars him into action, walking into the room and carefully turning Marcus' large mass over onto his back. His face is once again dotted with bruises and cuts, deeper than the ones Esca remembers to have decorated his skin before, feeling queasy at the sight of blood. He hopes Marcus is just exhausted, and the reason he still has not woken is not because he is wounded anywhere else.

Esca pushes aside his confusion to straighten and slip out of his jacket as he searches for a first-aid kit, dropping his coat over the armrest of the chair. He finds one in the bathroom, grabbing a wet washcloth as well before heading back to the living room, clearing a spot on the coffee table to sit on. For a moment, he just sits there with the kit in his lap, watching Marcus' eyes flicker under his lids, achingly curious and hurt as to why Marcus would put himself through this. Sure, he'd wanted to be a boxer growing up, but he hadn't mentioned it since he was, what, eight?

Resigning himself, Esca leans forward and starts to clean the blood from his face as gently as possible, not wanting to wake him and face the confusion head on. Esca had always been one to avoid confrontations like that, always, and now is no different. If he could avoid Marcus even knowing he was there—

But, no, Marcus had to apologize for missing his show and Esca really has to weasle out of him why he's even doing this to himself in the first place. How Marcus had fought before, he could easily be doing something similar professionally, so why waste his time on what are likely very illegal fights?

Esca scoffs and curses the honor that is surely the cause of this mess, glaring hard down at Marcus as he gets to his feet to wash the cloth in the sink before coming back. While he does look a bit better now, Esca is not entirely convinced a cut on Marcus' cheek won't need stitches. He should probably wake him and take him to the ER, at least to be sure.

"Esca...?" Marcus' green eyes are looking up at him blearily and out of focus, but overbright with surprise and something Esca cannot place.

"Marcus," he whispers, before clearing his throat and righting his face back into a stern glare. Marcus just smiles up at him apologetically, ignoring the tugging on his split lip.

"I missed your show."

"Yes, you did, you wanker," Esca growls without much bite, kicking Marcus' thigh spitefully for worrying him. Marcus laughs weakly, but his smile is bright even as he goes still again, falling asleep properly this time.

Esca watches him for a moment longer, then sighs and drops the rag onto the table next to the first aid kit, getting to his feet. He's sure Rònan is back at the apartment already and probably nagging all of his friends about his whereabouts. While Esca is normally quite flattered to have such a concerned roommate, the sight of Marcus passed out on the couch again makes him wonder if he should just say fuck it and stay over.

He finds a pen instead, and writes down several dates for his upcoming shows, underlining the times and, after a moment of miffed silence, tapes the note to Marcus' forehead for when he wakes. Satisfied with his work, he slips back into his shoes and yanks on his jacket, suddenly feeling exhausted.

He blames Marcus.

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><p><strong>AN**: Chapter seven might be a bit late.


	7. Everything is Marcus' Fault

**A/N**: This took longer than I thought, so the next chapter might be late too. I don't think anybody gives a shit though, since no one reads this but whatever.

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><p>"You could have at least worn a suit," Esca tells Marcus blandly, eyeing Marcus' outfit of an admittedly nice tee-shirt over dark jeans.<p>

"Hey, I wore a blazer; I don't see why I would need anything else." Marcus leads the way out of the auditorium, holding the door open for the other, but the smirk on his face nulls the generous intention. Esca steps on his toes for good measure.

"It's a formal event, Marcus. Everyone else was wearing suits."

"And they're all stuffy old people." Marcus sticks his hands in his pockets as a wind blows down the street, Esca seemingly unaffected while a thin jacket. Marcus notes this with disdain, but doesn't say anything, instead clapping him on the back with enough strength for Esca to trip. "Though I guess I should be relieved you still wear shitty windbreakers."

Esca shoves off his hand and resists the urge to step on his foot again. "And you still look awful in jeans." Marcus feigns extreme hurt, hand over his heart and an offended expression on his face.

"Excuse you, you're the one parading around in tights."

"And I look good in them," Esca responds with an air of haughtiness, chin turned up, but he catches the old teasing, and his shoulders relax. He leads the way down the street, meandering towards his apartment, and Marcus follows without question, face turned upwards towards the sky.

"Don't you think it's weird not to see the stars?" he asks suddenly, Esca pulling to a stop once he realizes Marcus is still a ways down the street. Esca follows his gaze for a moment, but drops it back down with a raised eyebrow.

"'Course, but you get use to it." His friend looks at him with a surprised tilt to his shoulders. "What?"

"We use to camp out in the yard all the time with your dad's astrology books." Esca looks back up at the sky.

"We were kids, Marcus. It's been, what, fifteen years?" Marcus shakes his head and lets out a labored sigh, before moving to catch up to him and bumping his shoulder.

"You need to get out of the city more."

"I like the city just fine. It's better than that village we were stuck in."

"You weren't that stuck." Esca falls silent at that, not sure how to respond. Was Marcus bitter about him leaving? He'd been the one to encourage him to take the invitation; surely there wasn't a grudge there.

"Do you wish that I'd—" Whether to stop the conversation before it happens, or if he really remembered something, Esca will never know, but Marcus' face shifts into one of surprise, scrambling around for the watch he has in his pocket. Esca gets a strange pang at the realization Marcus still never wears his watches; he'd said they got in the way of his wrestling. Something about the fact he hasn't dropped the habit stirs something in Esca's chest. Guilt...? Or just sadness?

"Shit, I didn't realize how late it was," Marcus is muttering to himself, looking in his pockets for something else.

Esca shakes away the guilty feeling of before, instead clenching his jaw and straightening his shoulders while he watches Marcus, now truly wondering if Marcus was just avoiding the conversation. "Should I go?" As if he had been slapped, Marcus jerks his head up to look at him, brows furrowed.

"What? No, shit, Esca. it's not... Shit." He rubs the back of his head and looks to his feet, letting out a deep breath. "I have somewhere to be, and it's..."

"Why do you do it?" Esca interrupts before Marcus can explain himself, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. "Why do you do it to yourself?" Marcus smiles sadly, before reaching out and yanking Esca into a one-armed hug, crushing him to his chest.

"Don't let it bother you, 'aight? This is the last one, I promise." Esca starts to shove him away, ears burning, but Marcus holds him closer for a moment. He swears he feels a rapid press of lips to the crown of his head, but Marcus is pulling back before he can be sure, already walking down the street before he can stop his friend.

The tugging in Esca's chest tells him to call Marcus back, to at the very least demand a straight answer, but mostly to keep him from doing this again. But he doesn't, standing in the middle of the street and watching Marcus wave at him over his shoulder before he turns the corner and disappears.

* * *

><p>Esca remembers collapsing onto his bed still completely clothed, shoes carelessly discarded in the middle of the hallway once he had read the note from his roommate that he'd be out. Esca would probably regret leaving his boots on the pristine carpet, but being too tired to care, Esca had gone straight to bed without bothering to turn on the light.<p>

Yes, he remembers the act of _going_ to bed, but not sleeping, jolting back awake to the sound of an incessantly-ringing phone. He feels exhausted, weariness tugging at his toes and fingertips, but his eyes open to the ceiling wide and clear, almost as if he had been expecting, waiting, to be woken. The world outside his window is still dark, no sunlight casting shadows across the plaster above him, so he can only assume he's hardly slept at all.

His bones and muscles protest to any movement, but his mind urges him to swing his feet to the floor, socks hitting the carpet with soft sounds that are drowned in the blaring noise of his phone. He reaches for it from where it had fallen from his nightstand, answering it without a thought to who it could be while his eyes adjust to the darkness of his room. "Hello?"

It takes a moment for anyone to respond, several people conversing in loud whispers to each other at a volume that Esca can't make anything out until he repeats his greeting.

This time, the response is immediate, one voice shushing the rest. "Hello, m'boy! This would be the residence of one Esca MacConnoval?" Esca glances to his clock, taking longer than usual to figure the number of hours he'd actually been sleeping.

"Yes, that's me."

"Could you open the door, ol' boy? I'm afraid your friend is not exactly dainty—"

"What?" Esca pulls his attention from the goo-green numbers and back to the phone, finding it strange he is not yawning yet; surely the heavy feeling in his head should cause some reaction of that nature. "What did you say your name was?"

"Surely Marcus has told you of me?" Esca straightens at the mention of Marcus, toes curling nervously within his socks. "I'm his old training buddy, Beppo—"

"Where's Marcus?" There's an exasperated sigh, and several grumbles from the other people with this 'Beppo', whom Esca is finding less and less reason to trust, what with him being the man Marcus has apparently promised to fight for.

"If you could just open the door, sonny; he really is not a light lad." Esca hangs up without a response, but he blames it on having nothing to say rather than the swollen feeling of his tongue within his mouth that only grows in uncomfortability when he makes his way down the hall carefully, kicking his shoes off to the side. He hesitates for a split second with his hand on the doorknob, but it is only for that second before he yanks open the door.

He is greeted first by the sight of a big greasy man with hair Esca really thinks he should just shave off, who smiles at him in an attempt to be friendly, but it looks more sheepish and guilty than anything. Esca is halfway through demanding why he'd shown up at his apartment so late when he looks behind Beppo towards his other companions, two indesscript men with a third supported between the two. It takes Esca hardly any time at all to recognize the crewcut and strangely-proportioned ears.

"Ah! You must be Esca!" Beppo is saying, holding out a hand to him while his companions shuffle their feet under Marcus's clearly-unconscious weight. The big man continues with pleasantries that Esca could _really not fucking care less right now_ because Marcus' leg is dripping a steady stream of scarlet onto the concrete floor of the hallway.

"Marcus, he—" Beppo claps a hand to Esca's shoulder as if in apology, but Esca is convinced he meant it to move him out of the way so his followers can push their way into the apartment with Marcus, carting him towards the living room.

"He'll be alright, sonny. Don't take him to the hospital just yet, y'hear? The coppers are still about." He smiles toothily, seemingly convinced that clears everything up as his companions rejoin him in the hallway.

Esca clenches his teeth as well as his fists, raising himself up as big as he can get, feeling more awake and rather ready for a fight. "The hospital—?"

"I pushed him a bit too hard with this one, I'll admit it. But he will be _fine_ as long as he is not arrested." Without waiting for Esca to reply, Beppo turns on his oily reptile-skin boots to take to the hallway after the two that had already descended the steps. Beppo closes the door with a snap that Esca immediately yanks back open with little discretion for the late hour.

He quickly follows Beppo into the hall, but finds it empty, the fat man clearly faster than he looks.

Esca stands there, grinding his teeth while his fists clench crescents into his palms, looking towards the deserted staircase until he realizes that doing so will do little good. He returns to his apartment and shuts the door with far less force than he'd opened it with, feeling his exhaustion come back in full force to replace the adrenaline of moments before. Like experiencing a childish sugar crash, Esca slumps against the white-painted wood so his sandy hair is crinkled between his head and the door.

Unlike at Marcus' apartment, he can hear Marcus' ragged breaths from the living room, sounding rough and entirely too out of place to belong to his friend. Perhaps it is the sound that gets Esca to push off of the door to find his first aid kit and stash of painkillers for injuries gained from dance, or perhaps it is the memory of the scars of Marcus' leg that spur him into action. The blood had clearly been coming from his left thigh, a worry gnawing at Esca that it will be too close to his old wounds.

Ignoring the sense of déjà vu he gets when he sits on the coffeetable to start cleaning Marcus' face once again, Esca sets the wet rag off to the side to gingerly cut away Marcus' sweats from his thigh. He swallows back the bile that rises in his throat at the sight, determined not to be sick, and quickly starts wiping away the blood. Surely it would look better once clean.

Marcus only flinches a couple of times, and Esca can't decide if he's relieved or not. It either means that he's use to pain like that, which causes his stomach to churn, or Marcus is too far gone to feel it. Both are concerning and Esca doesn't know which he'd prefer.

It is true, however, that it doesn't look that bad at all once it's cleaned. Well, it could look worse, he supposes. At the very least, it doesn't look like it needs stitches, more of a surface wound that's just rather large, but it does go over one of the scars already there. Scar tissue is always more sensitive than normal flesh, something Esca learned well when he'd gotten a tattoo to cover the embarrassing burn across his lower back. Come to think of it, that scar had been Marcus' fault. At least, it had been _Marcus'_ firework that went haywire.

Blinking, Esca pulls himself from his thought long enough to realize it had stopped bleeding enough that he could cover it with gauze and carefully wrap it. Marcus' eyebrows pinch for a moment when he puts the gauze down, but doesn't move other than that until Esca is finished. The white of the bandages stand out starkly from Marcus' tan, something he'd always been able to keep even in the Winter. Esca vaguely wonders if he is still able.

He looks down at his hands, at the scarlet that is staining under his fingernails like a child's attempt at a manicure, sloppy and creeping all over his skin. The sight even looks familiar, though he cannot fathom as to why, instead pushing himself to his feet to clean up before he actually throws up.

He stands in front of the bathroom mirror for ten minutes, the tap water running so it splashes his fingertips as if attempting to get the last bits of red. He had left the light off when he'd entered, more on accident than based on his quickly growing headache, but now, staring down at the water swirling around the drain, he's glad he cannot see the color it has become.

Things like... _this_ weren't supposed to happen in real life. Situations like these were left to action movies and crappy TV shows. They just _didn't_ happen to normal people with normal lives and normal friends and Esca just can't wrap his around the fact that it is happening to _him_.

Straightening, he scrubs furiously at his hands until he can barely feel his fingertips, before switching off the water. He stands there for another moment after his sudden spurt of energy and rubs his hands over his face, carding them up into his hair to brush his bangs from his eyes. His tired expression greets him in the mirror, but he pays it no mind as he turns to leave the bathroom, throwing the handtowel over the side of the sink.

Marcus has not moved at all, he thinks, except maybe his hand, which he supposes he should be thankful for: it meant he was sleeping and not just unconscious. Esca still waits in the doorway for some other sign that Marcus is alive aside from the steady rising and falling of his chest, shoulder leant against the doorjamb as his eyes dart over him, finding solace in the way he turns his head slightly towards the back of the couch. It is a minute change, hardly anything at all, but Marcus looks calmer now, more relaxed.

Relaxed enough that Esca rejoins him by the couch, seating himself between Marcus and the coffeetable. He leans his head against the armrest and closes his eyes, listening to Marcus' breathing as the sound grows less and less ragged the deeper into sleep he falls. Esca feels as if he should smile, but something about the situation finds that wildly inapproprite, blinking his eyes back open.

Marcus has one hand hanging limply over the edge of the couch now, Esca thinking perhaps he himself had dozed for a moment there, but he doesn't dwell on it, instead just reaching out to push his hand back onto the cushions. Then he lets his fingers linger against Marcus' palm, justifying the action with the fact Marcus would have hardly the right to complain if it had indeed been a kiss left to him before disappearing.

Esca sighs and closes his eyes again, deciding it is another thought for another day.


	8. Author is Sorry

**A/N**: Here, have this shitty ass chapter. I'm having a lot of trouble remembering where I had taken the story, and I'm not at all happy with how this chapter turned out. I'm really sorry for the wait, and the last few chapters will be uploaded this week. Although I'm not even sure anybody reads this on here.

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><p>Marcus has felt pain before. Marcus has felt the crushing weight of helplessness and fear of being too weak to go on. Yes, Marcus has felt pain. He'd felt it in his wrists after he'd been thrown to the ground one too many times in training. He'd felt it in his knees after they were kicked out from under him and as they hit cement with a crack. He'd felt it when he'd come home from school in fifth grade to find his mother sitting at the table with a pair of boots missing from beside the door.<p>

Yes, Marcus has felt pain. He thought his greatest feeling of it would had been how utterly _helpless_ he had been, laying the infirmary tent with his leg propped up too far. He thought it was the stretch of his muscle in resistance to healing, the screaming pain that still haunts him if he steps wrong. But he finds that, no, that had been pain, yes, but not weakness.

Weakness is waking to Esca sleeping soundly with his head against the couch Marcus wakes to. Weakness is seeing his friend's skin stretched too-tightly over his cheek bones and his knuckles too white as they grip the phone in his lap. Marcus decides weakness is finding words lodged in his throat and the fear of waking him pressing down on his chest. Pain is the throbbing ache in his leg, twisting and a ghost of what he had felt on his last day in the military. But weakness, weakness is watching Esca open his eyes and seeing his expression go from relieved to angry as if Marcus only needed to blink for his emotions to change again.

"Marcus," Esca says tightly, straightening himself into a proper sitting position with icy eyes that would cause a stronger man than Marcus to curl back. "I see you're finally awake." Marcus turns his gaze up to the ceiling, clenching his jaw and not bothering to respond, knowing it would fall on deaf ears.

Esca gets stiffly to his feet, joints creaking despite his limberness, a testimony to the assumption that Esca had spent the entire night next to the couch. Marcus takes a moment to hope that that means Esca can't be... _too_ angry with him, but the thought is quickly squashed when Esca returns from putting the phone in the kitchen. Growing up, sometimes it was difficult for Marcus to know quite what Esca would be angry with him about, whether it was for teasing about his tights, or punching one of his tormentors too hard, but he is not quite sure if knowing makes it all that much better.

He does not need to be watching Esca to know the look he is giving him, not daring to try and move, to sit, to stand, to do anything. He is fairly positive Esca would snap his neck before he got halfway to the door, especially with his leg in this shape.

"Beppo brought you here at three o'clock this morning," his friend eventually says, slowly, carefully. "You've stained my couch, depleted my first-aid kit, and made a home of my living room."

"Well, living _is_ in the name," Marcus mutters before he can stop himself, not exactly intending for Esca to hear. Judging by the rag that slaps into the counter that he can only assume Esca threw, he was not successful.

"What are you going to do with yourself Marcus?! You can't go gallivanting off like some hooligan and getting yourself half killed every other week!" Marcus flinches just a little bit, fisting his hands on the thin sheet Esca must have put over him. It offers little warmth or comfort. "One day, you're going to end up dead in some back alley no one sets foot in anymore, and no one is going to know."

His pride will not let him admit defeat, admit and apologize. It is not as if he meant for this to happen. Repaying a debt is as noble as you can get, and the look on Geurn's face when he'd paid a little of it back—

"I'm sure you have some excuse for why you're doing all of this," Esca continues in his silence, his light footfalls on the carpet the only indication that he is pacing. "I'm sure you have some... twisted reason for ending up like this. Is Beppo forcing you into it? He's a right slimy git, and if you had any common sense you would—"

"Who are you to question me?!" Marcus jolts up into a sitting position, jerking his chin up defiantly to meet Esca's surprised gaze. "You with your perfect life and perfect career. Not all of us are as lucky as you, _friend_," he spits as Esca's jaw twitches, teeth firmly clenched for a moment as he leers at his friend from across the coffee table.

"You're the one who stopped talking to me, Marcus. Don't you try to flip this one me."

"You're the one who up and left!" Marcus snarls.

"You encouraged me to! If you didn't want to let go, why in the bloody hell would you—"

"I just wanted you to be happy!"

Marcus becomes aware of his pulse as if he had never felt it before then, rapid and thrumming in his palms as his nails dig into them until his knuckles are white, heart thudding in his chest like chariot wheels over cobblestone. Jarring and incomplete.

Esca will not look at him anymore, gaze hard from where it faces the carpet, as if he could burn a hole in it and disappear. If he did not know better, Marcus would think him glaring, but he does know better, getting a firm kick of guilt for how far he has pushed Esca. Neither had wished for the argument, he is sure, but he realizes there is much more to what neither of them are saying than he had originally thought.

"What is he doing here."

Marcus jerks his head around to look at the doorway, where Rònan is standing with a knapsack slung over his shoulder, and a piercing glare aimed in his direction. Before he can speak, Esca is stepping forward quickly, easily avoiding the coffee table to move towards Rònan, neither missing the way he scrubs his face on his sleeve before speaking. "Rònan, I wasn't aware you'd be back until tomorrow. This is Marc—"

"I know who he is," he growls shortly, dropping his bag to the floor and not taking his glare from Marcus. Esca clenches and unclenches his fists slowly. "I'm asking why he is here."

"You gave me his address—"

"He is a filthy soldier!" Marcus recoils in surprise, but Esca doesn't seem all that fazed, moving forward and grabbing Rònan's shoulder to pull him into the hallway. Out of sight.

Marcus watches them go with a sinking feeling that Esca will be even less happy with him after speaking to Rònan, that he will have all the more reason to kick him out.

Esca returns with tight lips, but he looks no angrier than when he had left, picking up the rag he had thrown earlier. "Rònan will be staying at his girlfriend's for a few days, it seems." An uneasy feeling settling into the pit of his stomach, Marcus inhales a breath and starts to force himself to his feet, and he almost makes it too, before Esca gives a cry of alarm and forces him to sit down again.

"Esca, what're you—"

"The hell do you think you're doing?" Esca snaps, keeping his hand on Marcus' shoulder until he is sure he won't try to stand again. "Do you really think you'll be able to walk with that leg? Jesus Christ, you really are going to get yourself killed."

"I should go," he protests meekly under Esca's glare. "You obviously don't want—"

"I don't want you hurting yourself any more than you already have so _stay. put._" Marcus silences himself and watches the other man with a mixture of affront and annoyance, but refuses to tell him so, wanting to be sure the tight set to Esca's jaw does not mean he will get a punch to the nose if he tries to move.

In the silence that stifles them, Esca finally lets out a sigh, tension draining from his shoulders so he looks smaller than he should, more fragile. He looks downright exhausted, making Marcus wonder how long he had been unconscious. "I'm sor—"

"Don't say it," Esca breathes tiredly, cutting him off yet again to move his hand from Marcus' shoulder to his cheek. "No more fighting." He falls back into silence obligingly, trying his best not to concentrate on the patterns of Esca's hand pressing into his cheek. "You cannot walk on your own, and there is no way I'll be able to carry you. Rònan threatened to call the police if you are still here when he returns." Marcus opens his mouth, then thinks better of it. "I'll be back." Esca's grip tightens for a moment, before he pulls away and heads for the front door.


End file.
